Chapter 8 Jemma
Jemma
‘Ready to go?’ Dad said as Jemma wandered into the kitchen, her hair still damp from the shower. He passed her a large wicker picnic basket. ‘We’ll hit the river before the weather gets any worse.’
‘We’re still doing brunch?’ Although it wasn’t raining, the weather had closed in as she’d made her excuses to escape the working bee at Tracey’s. Not that excuses had really been necessary. Hamish had been no keener on having her hang around than she’d been on mucking in.
‘It’s getting a bit late, so we’ll call it lunch now.’
‘Does that make a difference to what we get to eat?’ Jemma lifted the cane lid of the basket, but Dad pressed it down.
‘I promise you won’t starve. Plus, I can guarantee Evie will put on a good feed for afternoon tea.’ He put his free arm around Samantha’s shoulders and pulled her in close to his side. ‘Fortunately, it’s mostly what Sam’s baked for them.’
Jemma rolled her eyes. ‘You two are more touchy-feely than any teenagers I know.’
‘Didn’t know you knew any.’
‘It’s not that long since I was one. You know, around the time I was getting that education you now want to cash in on for your legal advice.’
A gust of eucalypt-laden air rushed in as her father held the door wide. ‘I don’t think high school prepared you with much I can use, and any learning after that was all down to you, not your mum and me.’
Dad never took any credit for the fact that, while the uni debt was hers, he’d housed and fed her until she was in full-time work.
Of course, he also kept giving Mum acknowledgement she didn’t deserve; that habit was probably a result of having a brother who had to be positively reinforced every step of the way.
Sam slung an insulated carrier over one shoulder as they headed for the car. ‘Can your legal prowess be bought with good wine?’
‘Every lawyer, ever,’ Jemma said.
Sam tapped the strap of the bag. ‘At least, Pierce tells me it’s good wine. I wouldn’t have a clue. I’m a ginger beer girl.’
Jemma’s friends—or more accurately, colleagues—would have pretended knowledge while judging the wine on price alone.
And she’d have done the same, she thought a little guiltily.
Never would she have been caught admitting a preference for something cheap.
Yet Sam’s lack of artifice was refreshing.
‘Alcoholic ginger beer?’ she asked as they reached the car.
‘Hundred per cent,’ Sam said. ‘I mean, not a hundred per cent alcohol, obviously. Hundred per cent correct.’ She gave a dramatic shiver. ‘Though it might have to be hot chocolate instead, today.’
Pelicanet’s mooring was only a few minutes’ drive along the riverbank, the old wooden wharf seeming to flow from the roots of an overhanging willow tree.
‘Is this safe?’ Jemma asked, stepping dubiously onto the first wooden plank. At the end of the short pier, Pelicanet floated in miniature majesty, the rich cream and burgundy paintwork highlighting the paddle-wheeler’s antiquity.
‘Your dad had the wharf all shored up from underneath,’ Sam said, as though he had perfected a feat akin to the construction of the pyramids of Giza.
‘He didn’t want to ruin the aesthetics or damage the willow, so it was quite a challenge.
‘Come on. We left the heaters on, so it’ll be toasty inside.
I do wish it’d rain, though.’ She cast an imploring glance at the leaden sky.
‘You and every farmer around here, from what I heard this morning.’
‘This morning?’ Sam lifted an eyebrow.
‘I ran into some locals when I was out jogging,’ Jemma said, deliberately vague.
Gossip and intrigues would feature hugely in Sam’s life, the highlight of the local social calendar no doubt the revelation of who was hooking up with whom.
‘They had a working bee going at an older woman’s house.
She gave me a tea towel. Interesting colour combinations.
’ She’d tucked it into a drawer in the cottage for Sam to find at some future date.
Sam gestured for her to cross the narrow gangway. ‘Oh, that’d be Tracey. I suspect she’s colour blind, but honestly, her heart is pure gold. I’m surprised you managed to get away with only a towel, not a carload of baked goods, too.’
‘Hamish staked a claim to anything edible.’
Damn.
‘Hamish?’ Dad ushered her toward the middle deck. ‘Not enough sparring for you last night, then?’
The intimate restaurant onboard the paddle-wheeler was styled with quiet opulence—rich timber accents, plush leather, crisp white tablecloths and gleaming cutlery.
‘Nice,’ Jemma said as she took it all in.
‘This is your doing, Sam? Pierce’s style is usually more austere.
’ In women, too, she thought as Sam shook her head, blonde ponytail frizzed with unruly flyaways.
‘No, mostly Pierce’s work. I only added a few tweaks here and there.’
‘Hardly,’ Dad said. ‘You found both the boat and the dream, Sam, I just ran with it.’ At the sound of an approaching vehicle, he peered out of the window. ‘That’s our captain. We’ll hit the waves shortly.’
‘I hope there aren’t too many of those,’ Jemma said, glancing out across the bow of the boat to the river. ‘I don’t know that I’m much of a sailor.’ The breeze had cleared the early mist, but the clouds hung low, grazing the grey river.
Dad took the basket. ‘I’ll take these down to the galley. I know you’re not particularly interested in the kitchen setup, so you stay here and get cosy while I get Sam’s mini quiches into the oven.’
Cosy was certainly easy enough to attain.
Jemma settled into one of the ornately carved oak chairs at a table for two.
The burgundy leather perfectly matched the plush carpet and mirrored the painted trim on the outside of the vessel.
In the diffuse light, the wood-panelled walls glowed deep and golden, and the brass fixtures gleamed.
‘Having an open fire on a boat kind of does my head in,’ she confided to Sam as the reflection of the flames behind the tempered glass of a small combustion heater flickered in the crystal glasses above the bar. ‘This boat is made of wood, isn’t it?’
‘Defies logic, right?’ Sam said. ‘These old paddle-wheelers were originally steam-driven, so they had a huge furnace below decks—along with a massive wood pile. They’d have to break their journey to chop more wood along the riverbanks to keep the furnace stoked.’
‘But this doesn’t still run on fire?’ Jemma asked nervously, images of boilers blowing up flashing into her head.
‘No, you’re safe,’ Sam said, moving behind the bar.
She produced two glass mugs and filled them with hot chocolate from a thermos.
‘I’ll put a fresh pot of chocolate on the stove downstairs to have with dessert, but this will get us through for now.
’ She held up a bottle of Amaretto. ‘Tot? Or too early?’
‘Definitely down for that. Again, that lawyer thing,’ Jemma said. ‘We drink far too much, at inappropriate times of the day.’
Sam held her lower lip between her teeth, swiftly returning her gaze to the bottle.
Jemma recalled that Sam’s ex-husband had a drinking problem that contributed to the end of their marriage. Actually, Dad hadn’t put it quite that nicely.
‘Coping mechanism?’ Sam suggested.
‘More an occupational hazard. Habit. Expectation. Networking.’ Jemma took the hot drink and leaned back in her chair. ‘How is Pelicanet working out?’
Sam sat opposite her. ‘Pelicanet is perfect, because she’s just for us, Pierce and me.
But this’—she waved a hand to indicate the restaurant—‘despite changing name twice in the first couple of months, is doing well. As well as we want it to, anyway. We’ve restricted bookings to two weekends a month, to keep it an exclusive “have to book six months ahead” destination.
And to make sure we don’t lose our passion.
’ She grinned, evidently having come to terms with Jemma’s earlier teasing.
‘Plus, your dad’s busy at the inn with Gabby, and I’m helping Christine in the diner, now that Chloe and Tara are both studying at TAFE. ’
There was a bunch of information in there that Jemma didn’t need to know, about people in whom she had no interest—although Tara was possibly the same girl who’d spent far too much time ogling Hamish this morning.
Jemma liked Sam—though not as much as her father did—but it was clear the woman was already returning to her small-town roots, going back to work in the reincarnation of the cafe she’d so recently sold.
Jemma sipped her drink, mulling it over: Dad had sunk serious money into this venture and she couldn’t fathom why.
His cafe in the city was successful and he could have contested Dante for control of the family trattoria, given he’d managed it forever.
Dad wasn’t even twenty years older than her, yet he’d already dialled everything back, running away to the country to chase a dream.
Sam gasped as a vibration ran through the boat. ‘Sorry. Starting up the engines never gets old. After watching Pelicanet slowly dying for years, I can never quite believe that Pierce managed to bring her back to life like this.’
The ting of a bell drew Jemma’s glance to the panelled wall on the opposite side of the room.
‘Dumb waiter,’ Sam explained.
‘High tech. Pierce mentioned the renos all had to be heritage sympathetic, but I guess he snuck that one through?’
‘Actually, it’s an original feature,’ Sam said. ‘When you see how precarious the stairs from the galley are, you’ll understand why they needed it back in the day.’
‘Stay there,’ Dad directed, entering the saloon as Sam started to rise. ‘I’ll get it.’
He opened a wooden hatch and withdrew a silver tray.
Jemma greedily inhaled the sweet aroma of quiche and hot bread. ‘You were right, Pierce, a few irritating locals aside, this weekend was a brilliant idea. I can literally feel my stress levels dropping. And my stomach growling.’
‘Stress? What— Ah, Captain.’ Dad nodded at the doorway behind Jemma. ‘Grab a seat and have a feed while the engines warm up.’
Eager to get the introductions over so they could devour the food, Jemma adopted her best social networking smile and swivelled toward the newcomer.
‘Hamish!’